


The Tragic Tale of Izzybella Alexis Clara Elizabyth Wilson-Gilmore

by 221Bagel (lily_winterwood)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Mary Sue Parody, Parody, Satire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/221Bagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Divine Comedy by the 221Bagel: Tragedy! Or is it parody? Or is it a sickening romance in which a special snowflake of a young teenage introverted girl finds true love at 221B Baker Street? I'd tell you to read and review, but that'd be dull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the tragic prophecy

Izzybella Alexis Clara Elizabyth Wilson-Gilmore is tragic, because she said so. It’s not because she fits any of the definitions of a tragic heroine, but –

Wait.

No.

She does fit some of those.

You see, when Izzybella was born, a prophecy was made by some one-eyed crone with a wart on her nose who claimed her name was Sybil about a girl whose hair was “as black as midnight’s wings”, whose eyes were “blue carbuncles glittering in the intestines of a holiday roast goose”, and whose face was “paler than a saltine cracker tossed in a cup of bleach”. This prophecy, of course, said some superstitious mumbo-jumbo about a tragically named girl who would fall in love with a “lonesome detective” and become “his greatest conductor of light”. Or something like that.

And then, because the Watson family thought that prophecy was Serious Business™, they sent out a sniper to kill the child. Because god forbid anyone other than their little boy John grow up to become the greatest conductor of light to said lonesome detective.

Of course the baby Izzybella, being cursed with luck, somehow managed to barrel roll out of her crib at the oncoming sniper, karate chop him into two, and dive out a window and survive the fall by landing in a crate full of marshmallows.

Her parents thought she’d been kidnapped by the sniper, but since the sniper was lying dead in the nursery, that theory was quickly dispatched. More theories ensued, though, the funniest one being the one about a stork swooping in and snatching Izzybella out of her crib and taking her back to wherever babies come from.

It so happened, though, that a painter by the name of Gilmore – not the Gilmores with the girls, I’m afraid – really fancied some marshmallows that day, and adopted the girl that came with them.

Izzybella, therefore, grew up to be –

Wait, what, a profile? Well, that’s simply obnoxious storytelling. I’ve never opened up a copy of Harry Potter and beheld in the first chapter the name “Harry Potter”, followed by a description of him, his friends, his likes and dislikes, and his personality! That’s what every English teacher you’ve ever known has labelled as ‘telling, not showing’, and I could’ve sworn they preferred for you to do the opposite.

Anyway. Izzybella Alexis Clara Elizabyth Wilson-Gilmore therefore grew up to be this nauseatingly beautiful young woman with hair as black as midnight wings, eyes as blue as blue carbuncles glittering in the intestines of a holiday roast goose, and a face paler than a saltine cracker tossed in a cup of bleach.

Poor kid. 


	2. in which the tragic prophecy is debunked

“You have to pay attention to me, Mr Holmes – I actually have a case this time!”

“I thought Anderson was rock bottom, but apparently I’ve been proven wrong!”

The door to the dingy Montague Street flat slammed shut, leaving Izzybella standing pointlessly on the doorstep. She promptly plopped down onto it and started crying, because she had no other idea what to do and thought that the occupants of the flat, upon hearing a damsel in distress, would therefore rush to her aid.

“But it was in the prophecy, Sherlock!” wailed Izzybella, banging at the door to the flat. “You and I were destined to be! It’s a soulmate bond! The prophecy can’t lie!”

“That person who made the prophecy was evidently high on some sort of hallucinogenic or psychoactive drug. Possibly both. Why should you ever believe in the superstitious mumblings of some old hag?” shouted Sherlock through the door.

“Because I love you and I want to marry you and have your children!” whined Izzybella.

The door to the flat slammed open. Sherlock Holmes glared down at her.

“Get. Off. My. Doorstep,” he ground out.

Of course Izzybella would then start crying anew, yet for some reason she couldn’t shed more than one perfect, pearly tear at a time. Sherlock continued to stare at her as if she was nothing more than a wad of chewing gum he’d caught on the underside of his extremely expensive shoes, and – when her crying seemed unlikely to cease anytime this century – slammed the door shut once more.

Izzybella rose to her feet, blue eyes sparkling in anger (how that was possible, the world will never know). “If you’re going to be so uppity about it, Mr Holmes – well, all right! I’ll prove to you that I will be a truer true love than that silly Watson will ever be!”

“Stop spoiling the rest of the series!” someone from beyond the fourth wall shouted in reply. Izzybella whirled around, glared at that someone, and stormed away from Montague Street in high dudgeon. 


	3. in which john doesn’t adopt stray girls

Dr John Watson stumped out of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, a couple days after that dramatic spat. He, of course, was blissfully unaware of such an occurrence.

Unfortunately, this bliss was not to last, because moments later a blur of black collided with the good doctor, sending him back a couple steps in surprise. His right leg twinged in pain.

“Damn my – oh. Hello.”

The young woman extricated her limbs from his with a grin. “Hey, Doctor Watson!”

“…How did you…?”

“You’re one of my favourite characters from this story called BBC Sherlock –”

“Sherlock? He’s in the morgue or something. Getting his riding crop, apparently.” John frowned. “Are you related to him, or…?”

“My friend Violetta Isabelle is! And my other friend Jezabelle Tabitha Harker is your niece!”

John’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t know I had a niece.”

“You do now! She’s like, really in love with Sherlock, but –”

“I had no idea Harry knew Sherlock at all – in fact, I didn’t know Sherlock knew her children.” The ‘how on earth could she have children; she doesn’t fancy cock’ lingered in the air, unsaid. “Come to think of it, if your friend is of any age appropriate to, ahem, fall in love with Sherlock Holmes, then that’d make Harry a teenage mother and I certainly wasn’t there for that.”

“I don’t know how it’s possible at all, either. A wizard must’ve done it. Take me back to 221B!”

“Why?”

“Because I got on the wrong plane from America and I’m actually a tragic orphan!”

John stared. “Baker Street is half an hour from the airport. If you got on the wrong plane, then why aren’t you still at Heathrow waiting for the right plane?”

“Because I’m a tragic orphan! Don’t make me go back!”

John’s eyes narrowed. “You could go stay with your friends. You said you had two of them.”

“But my friends are jealous of me because of my –”

“Do you really think I am that gullible? Or that stupid?” John stepped away from Izzybella. “What on earth is _wrong_ with you?”

“I…” Izzybella stared at him in shock and sadness. “I just want to… want to be loved…”

“Acting like an annoying brat is hardly going to get you anywhere. Here, have five pounds. Buy yourself a latté. I’ll be off.”

Stumping away on his cane, John Watson walked off to his dingy bedsit, to look up Sherlock Holmes. He would later that night read about Holmes’s pending restraining order against a girl who looked eerily like the one who’d collided with him earlier that day, and wonder at exactly what he’d managed to escape by denying the girl asylum with him.

He would never suspect that she would hail a cab, wheedle the cabbie into taking her around the city for five pounds, and then get dropped off in Brixton with a killer cabbie by her side.


	4. the first resurrection

The first thing everyone’s favourite tragic heroine (everyone totalling at a smashing number of one, of course) realised as she began to resume consciousness was that she was never ever _ever_ going to drink again. Ever.

Never mind the fact that she was only what, fourteen? Which was two years below the legal drinking age in Britain, wasn’t it?

Wait, no. Eighteen was, for general purchasing, and sixteen was for drinking in restaurants and pubs. Right.

But wait again. There was no alcohol involved in whatever happened before she oh-so-dramatically blacked out – because she really did like to black out in melodramatic ways; it was something she learnt at Tragic Heroine School – no, it was coming back, all of it. The cabbie, the wheedling, and the pills –

“And that’s the last time I mix up my medications,” grumbled Izzybella as she opened her eyes.

There was a sudden hiss of breath, followed by a “What the hell, Lestrade, she’s not dead at all!” in a very familiar baritone. Izzybella nearly started drooling at the sound of Sherlock Holmes’s voice. Yes, good, very good! She’ll just have to play dead a little longer.

“She was bloody poisoned, all right? She took the same poison as the others! When I checked on her she was deader than the dreams and aspirations of half of the London workforce!” Detective Inspector Lestrade shouted back. More angry stomping ensued, followed by Sherlock’s train-speed deductions about how Izzybella had gotten to the top floor of some dodgy flat in Brixton.

“ –She is alive, Lestrade; her back is moving – she’s carved out ‘Rache’ on the floor for some reason – I get the feeling there should’ve been someone else in her place, someone who’s supposed to actually be dead –”

“Yeah, I kinda elbowed this lady in pink out of the way for the cabbie,” Izzybella said from her position on the floor. There was a splutter from DI Lestrade. “I wanted you to deduce me like one of your dead girls, Sherlock!”

“I filed a restraining order for a reason,” Sherlock snapped.

“Don’t be too harsh on her, Sherlock, lord knows half of the Yard wants a restraining order against _you_ ,” added the good inspector with a sardonic grin on his face (Izzybella could tell because she, through her gratuitously-given powers of deducing-people-without-even-practicing, could sense when people were smiling even when they weren’t saying anything that would belie their amusement).

“Too harsh on her, Lestrade? This young woman has accosted my colleague and demanded he take her home. She seems to know a lot about him despite him not knowing a thing about her –”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? You all are fictional characters from BBC Sherlock –”

A shard of glass flew out of nowhere, cutting off Izzybella’s explanation by imbedding itself in her skull.

“I SAID, STOP RUINING THE SERIES!” someone from beyond the fourth wall shouted. Blood trickled out of Izzybella’s new head wound – or was that glitter glue?

“I…” the voice of John Watson muttered from somewhere behind, but darkness was already starting to descend; the world was starting to blur.

“Sherlock, I love you,” sobbed Izzybella in her best ‘I’m dying; feel sorry for me’ voice. “It’s a shame you don’t return my feelings, because I have loved you for a thousand years –”

“Cut the sickening dying-scene monologue and just die already, for god’s sake,” snapped Sherlock.

There was a pause in which Izzybella’s breath became more and more laboured, in which her vision became more and more blurry, and then –

Darkness again.

“She should be dead for good now,” Lestrade said after a moment.

Izzybella chose that moment to leap up, giggling like an extremely gay squirrel on helium. “Haha! Did you think death would take me? Suckers! I eat death for breakfast –!” She was, very fortunately, cut off by the expedient route of John’s fist to her face, and blacked out for the third time this chapter.

“I suppose death doesn’t want her bothering it, either,” Lestrade amended.

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted to [The Circle of Lemmings](http://www.quotev.com/story/2395687/The-Tragic-Tale-of-Izzybella-Alexis-Clara-Elizabyth-Wilson-Gilmore/).  
> (Check this space for other crosspostings?)


End file.
